


What You Do With The Rest of Your Lives

by EverythingNarrative



Series: World War Etheria [7]
Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: AU, Canon Rewrite, Children, F/F, F/M, Family Planning, Fluff, M/M, Marriage, Multi, Other, Post-Canon, Utopia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-19 08:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29996871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverythingNarrative/pseuds/EverythingNarrative
Summary: Prime is dead.The universe is saved.Everyone is happy.Terms and conditions may apply.A happy ending is not a thing you win, but—
Relationships: Adora & Bow & Catra & Glimmer (She-Ra), Adora/Catra (She-Ra), Bow/Glimmer (She-Ra), Double Trouble/Peekablue/Sweet Bee (She-Ra), Entrapta/Hordak/Mara (She-Ra), Kyle/Lonnie/Rogelio (She-Ra), Mermista/Sea Hawk (She-Ra), Netossa/Spinnerella (She-Ra), Perfuma/Scorpia (She-Ra)
Series: World War Etheria [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923616
Comments: 9
Kudos: 37





	1. Returning Home, Getting Away

**Author's Note:**

> This work hopefully isn't going to contain violence. It is however the horniest technically non-explicit thing I have ever written.

Of course there is still work to be done, and of course the fighting doesn’t stop instantly because you dethrone a despot, even one as directly and insidiously dictatorial as Horde Prime.

On Etheria alone, there is upwards of three million clones — a plurality of which are bunkered in the Southern Reach — now bereft of their master. A humanitarian catastrophe waiting to happen.

Removing the forcibly instated clone governors proves easier than expected; the clone occupation forces are rendered toothless by the dissolution of the chain of command. Docile-even. Many of them paralyzed by their new-found struggle with identity apart from their cult leader.

There’s a brief grace period where it seems as if things might go back to normal.

And then thousands upon thousands of underground resistance members go home to their families, bringing with them the first-hand experience of what is essentially a post-scarcity society.

In fact, they _bring_ the post-scarcity society with them. The standard replicators plus power supply, data storage, and refinery are not quite single-household sized, but close. And they’re basically free.

All but the most technophobic parts of civic society across Etheria takes to the self-replicating fabricators, the portal device networks, the buddy-bots, and the hand-held communicators with gusto and keen interest. A development which has many powers-that-be worried.

The revolution looms large on the horizon.

* * *

Glimmer stands by her vanity, supporting herself in part on her staff, in part by her wings. Her new legs are still unfamiliar enough that she’s in danger of falling.

On the other hand, they are _fabulous._ Color-changing skin, and built-in heels. Rather than be an imitation of flesh, she has chosen them almost doll-like in appearance. And they match her angelic strength, too. Entrapta has had no hand in them other than verifying the soundness of the final design and overseeing the attachment.

To show them off, she has sworn never to wear a combination of bottom and footwear that will fully cover them. Today she is barefoot and in breeches. The built-in heel — really a kind of extendable extra toe — serves to elevate her. She has set the artificial skin to slowly cycle through a gamut of inoffensive pastels.

“There, how does that look, your Majesty?” her stylist and barber asks; a middle-aged faun woman. She hands her scissors off to her buddy-bot — the civilian model, with the soft silicone padding over the working parts and a cuddly inflated exterior made of vinyl. ‘Huggable,’ as Kyle described it.

“Thank you, Betty, it is lovely.”

It was about time for Glimmer to realize that there is no controlling her hair. So now she has had Betty trim it down, leaving just enough for a flourish ’do on top. Her cow lick actually somehow becomes an advantage.

She fumbles with the buttons on her lilac gala uniform jacket. “Ah, would you pull up my chair?” she asks. “I need both hands for this.”

“My Queen, allow me,” Betty says, and buttons Glimmer up.

“Thank you. I think that’s everything for today. Say hello to the kids from me.”

“I will, your Majesty.”

Then Glimmer blinks away, to the study adjoint to the throne room.

“You’re late,” Bow says. He is wearing straight ranger garb; green and grey, clean and pressed, but without any filigree or even rank insignias. Glimmer has insisted he at least wear a silver laurel brooch and trim of same on his gloves.

“I’m the Queen. Court is not in session until I say so.”

He gives her a kiss, and they stand there for a moment just enjoying one another. “Ever thought of growing out your beard?”

Bow shrugs. “Clean shaven has a certain youthful vigor…”

“A nice beard signals maturity; it could get you some unearned respect when it comes to first impressions. Also I think it would be great if it tickled when you kiss me.”

Bow blushes. “I’ll think about it.”

Then Glimmer takes him by the hand.

“Wait, your book —” Bow hands her the copy of _Statecraft and Revolt: an Economical Analysis._ She tucks the hefty tome under one arm.

They head through the double doors into the packed throne room.

Every single noble family still standing is represented. Most of them by their matriarchs and patriarchs in person. A sea of ostentatiously dressed people fill the floor, and the combined miasma of perfumes fill the air.

Glimmer ascends the steps to the throne, and Bow takes the consort’s seat by her side. A murmur spreads through the crowd.

She claps her hands. “Court is in session.” She rises, supporting herself on her staff.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the nobility; thank you all for coming in such numbers and so promptly. I have an opening statement to make, and an agenda to follow today; if anyone has a matter of supreme urgency that surpasses this, say so now.”

A hand raises. It’s Duke Erlan of Erelandia. “Might I inquire, your Majesty, who this suitor of yours is?”

Glimmer looks at him for just long enough that the silence becomes uncomfortable and everyone including the Duke realizes that no, that is _not_ in fact of supreme urgency. “We might as well get that out of the way. This is Bow of the Hidden Library, descendant of Ruined Alexandria, former Corps Captain of the Brightmoon Rangers, Captain of the Resistance, and current Master Pilot of the Swift Wind in the Starlight Brigade. He is not my suitor, he is my husband-to-be. I will not be taking questions on the matter; but if it eases any minds, I owe him _several_ life debts and I love him with all my heart. Does that answer your question, Duke?”

“It does, your Majesty.”

Glimmer switches her staff to her other hand and takes out the book. “Has anyone here had time to do some reading?”

No answers.

She snap-casts a telekinesis spell, and hands the book back to bow. “Show of hands, who here is worried about the new manufacturing machines; the so-called fabricators?”

A large number of hands rise.

“Good. I’m here to tell you how we solve the problem.”

She looks over the crowd.

“We abolish the royal dynasty, and every noble house.”

The crowd erupts in bedlam. Hundreds of voices shouting.

Glimmer waits. She looks back at Bow, who gives her a thumb up.

Then she looks back at the crowd, raises her staff, and brings it down with a thunderclap, breaking a tile on the podium.

Everyone shuts up.

“Questions. Orderly. One at a time. You.” She points at a noblewoman.

“My Queen, this is outrageous; I think I speak for everyone when I say this cannot stand. We will move for dethronement if you insist.”

Glimmer nods. “Let me tell you all why you are wrong.”

She reaches to the holster at her side, and draws her Yala-Zev sub-carbine. “This is a weapon that surpasses in deadliness every single musket and rifle ever made by Brightmoon smithies. A standard fabrication bed can produce four of these per hour, given the correct raw materials.” She holsters it again.

"Everyone will have access to this kind of firepower by the end of the month. Every. Single. Peasant. You come to me, worried for your livelihoods, and I _understand,_ I really do. I already know there are pocket communities who have transitioned to using credit on their hand-held communicators for trade, rather than the mint’s coin. And I am sure you have explored the possibility of enforcing taxation.

"I’m here to tell you that these communities are only going to proliferate. Replicators enable splinter communities to become self-sufficient with trivial ease. Nobody with access to one is reliant on the long logistical chains we have built our society to facilitate. Tools, food, clothing, medicine, even housing and transportation. All of our efforts as a great nation, made irrelevant in one single turn.

“It feels unfair; I can only imagine.”

There’s murmurs of assent.

“Stop whining. Get a replicator or two installed in your estates and stop trying to fight it.”

Several dozen people object and Glimmer raises her staff — the mere threat calls them to order.

“What do you want me to do? Send in the _army?_ I have no more power over this situation than _any of you._ And I am not going to start the bloodiest civil war in history because _you can’t reform your tax codes._ We’ll lose. Because these people just fought a civil war against forces far greater than what we can muster.”

“My Queen,” the governess of Elberon says. “This is an outrage. The Throne exists to serve the interests of the Noble houses, in exchange for fealty. I have heard that your late mother _and_ father have both been found alive; I motion we bring them into the discussion and be over with this nonsense.”

Glimmer looks at her. “They are honeymooning.”

“Can we perhaps contact them and get them to return?”

“No. And besides, I seem to remember that you all put your seals on a declaration that _I alone_ was Queen Regent. And as for the slanderous notion that I have not pursued your interest…”

Glimmer gestures out the great windows. “I just fought a _war_ against _an army from the sky,_ who wanted to _destroy the entire universe._ And we _won._ Or else we wouldn’t _be here._ ”

She taps on her legs with her staff. “I lost my _legs_ in battle. Governess, when was the last time you were injured in war, protecting the people in your charge? Never?”

“Correct, your Majesty.”

Glimmer nods. “Are there any other objections on legal or ideological basis? Because if not, I would like to discuss the specifics of my transition plan, what the government of the future is going to look like, and why this isn’t actually going to matter to the lot of us, so long as we’re willing to accept a life of marginally less luxury.”

She looks over the crowd, waiting. Then she begins her tale:

“About a month and a half ago, by choice, I became a humble steward of a ship that sails the stars. I spent a week out between the stars, making sure friends I love dearly were fed, clothed, and lived in clean surroundings…”

* * *

There’s nothing quite like using the grandest kind of banquet to really _show_ how a castle can be run on a skeleton crew of well-paid part-time workers, volunteers, and other such implementations of Queen Glimmer’s radical new ideas for — as she terms it — ‘Ethical’ noble life.

A royal wedding. The coronation is going to seem like a quaint garden party in comparison.

And before every wedding must come the bachelor and bachelorette parties. Not to celebrate the ‘last eve of freedom’ for the nuptial couple, because that should hopefully never be the case. No; they exist to close the unmarried chapter of one’s life. Just as the wedding reception exists to open the married one. And the nights in between — if indeed there are any — are for liminal contemplation.

Glimmer and Bow both independently — great minds and all — have the brilliant idea to hold said parties in another city entirely, so as to perhaps limit the amount of embarrassing gossip that would get out if the usual revelry of such a party were to take place in the city of Brightmoon.

Specifically, since the peace treaties have gone through; a nice diplomatic gesture is to choose Capital, in the Fright Zone. A gesture of diplomatic good faith!

And so, Catra and Adora’s vacation is interrupted.

* * *

Fall is coming, and really the time to build a proper homestead would be in spring, when gardening can begin properly. At least it is hunting season, and with the existence of portal engines, fresh greens are available year round at a similar convenience to a stroll down to the green grocer on the corner in a big city.

They don’t pick a spot in the Whispering Woods. For one because it is dangerous, and for two, because there’s a lot of memories in that place which neither of them want to deal with.

So they go home, and obtain a small plot of land in the forests to in the northeastern Fright Zone — using Catra’s credit from her time as a General while Horde society still runs on Dinar — and on the same day, go there. Not by portal, but by Halcyon as a car.

Now is not an occasion that calls for using portals to go places in order to save time. Now is the time to _take_ time.

The roads are depopulated. Every day driving becomes less appealing as portal-travel becomes commonplace. Which is good, because a _gold-colored magical car_ tends to draw stares. On full trafficked roads they might have caused an accident.

“You look like a dork with those shades,” Catra says.

“Yeah, isn’t it great?” Adora replies, running a hand through her hair. Three hours ago she took an electric trimmer to it, then came running to Catra for help when she realized it wasn’t as easy as she thought. A buzzed undercut, and with some styling, a pompadour and top knot. The shades were on display at one of the new fabricator kiosks — not the automatic kind from Refuge, but an actual store with a person manning the register. They were dirt cheap.

In fact, that very store is where they got most of their clothes. Short-sleeved shirts with slogans, shorts for Catra, a skirt for Adora. Barely appropriate for the weather, but it feels practically toasty compared to the Southern Reach.

Catra has let her hair down. Quite literally, as it obeys her commands. It hangs long, smooth and immaculately despite all reason, down to the small of her back — at least when the wind isn’t blowing through it.

“You really went and brought all his fake jewelry,” Adora notes.

Catra is decked out ostentatiously: earrings, necklace, bangles, rings, and anklets all made of very much ignoble alloys. “Hey, I’m just trying it on for size. I’ll get my hands on some gold and fab up some real jewelry if I like it.”

They reach the forest, and Adora takes them off the main road, onto the smaller ones, then onto a forest trail. Halcyon’s all-terrain car form eats the road without slowing down any.

Soon enough, going by the geoposition, they arrive at the plot of land. Technically it’s a two-year use-lease intended for logging. But Catra has argued on the car ride that such things as land-ownership are probably going to fall apart. She’s studied economical power structures more so than Adora, being General and all.

“Could you just mark up the extend of the property?” Catra asks her. “Then I’ll unload.”

* * *

By the end of the day, they’ve made headway, and Adora is getting a feel for how the people of Refuge constructed their third city in less than a day.

Felling the trees is what took the longest, especially since Adora insisted on doing the first dozen with an ax. It took time, but on the other hand Catra is never again going to complain about the prospect of watching Adora perform hard physical labor in a sleeveless top and a pair of thigh-high shorts — the skirt wasn’t really working out, so they swapped. By the end of it, Adora was basically _steaming._

Digging out the foundation took markedly shorter, as the powered entrenchment tools turned out to be able to eat through stumps with ease. Laying the foundation required Catra to break out her fabricator suite.

“You carry around an entire fab-suite?” Adora asks, as Catra plonks the five machines down on the uneven forest floor.

“Yeah. Wouldn’t you if you could?”

Adora shrugs.

The construction foam itself is not quite strong enough for foundation-building, so in addition, a grid of carbon supports must be laid, much like rebar in concrete, only much, much lighter and stronger. Indeed the whole structure is so light, part of the foundation is a series of great big anchoring spears driven into the ground.

The carbon for spears and reinforcements is readily extracted from the felled trees; they drive them into the soil together, taking turns striking with heavy mallets. The foam itself needs only minerals readily extracted from the excavated topsoil.

On top of that Catra lays down the walls with the help of a few blackguards, using hand-held construction nozzles, leaving enough space on the foundation for a generous patio and an adjoining utility shed. With the walls in place, they set the ceiling struts and lay the ceiling in foam as well, then raise a rain-runoff roof designed for growing moss, leaving a sizable loft-gap in-between, accessible by external ladder.

They set up the fab suite in the shed, complete with the wastewater processor, water tank and heater, power plant, and refinery. The fabricator, dry-laundering machine, and data crystal array go inside the house proper.

Then it’s just a matter of drilling holes for the plumbing and wiring, and come nightfall, they run the fabricator to make conventional furniture: toilet cabin — _very_ needed — and shower cabin, and kitchen sink, cook-top; and then wisely, a nice, big, study bed.

And for all the intention of picking up that passion of their second-kiss-turned-make-out-session, they are both tired, bone-deep.

Adora falls over backwards onto the bed, groaning. “I don’t even have the energy to cook dinner.”

Catra throws her a meal bar — the hefty, half-pound kind that _tastes good,_ rather than being nutritionally optimal like the MRE-packet gruel. A sandwich-sized chunk of pressed high-protein ingredients, flavored with something called ‘cocoa.’

Adora unwraps the wax paper and chows down, getting crumbs on the sheets.

Catra lets herself dump down next to Adora. “So.”

“ _I wuw yu, Gadra,_ ” Adora says, through a mouthful of meal bar.

Catra giggles, and flourishes another meal bar for Adora, since she just destroyed half of hers in two bites. She _has_ been doing most of the heavy lifting.

“Do you think people are going to start doing this?”

“ _Whaf?_ ”

“Going into the middle of nowhere and just… Building a house.”

“ _’Ay’ee._ ”

They eat in silence, while the sounds of the forest outside turn strange. Evening birds sing their bedtime songs, and the occasional gust of wind rustles the leaves. They’re keeping doors and windows open — perhaps incautiously — to ventilate away the smell of fresh construction foam; a very earthy, acrid smell, even if completely harmless.

The whole room needs a coat of paint and some thick carpets to be really hospitable; the light grey walls feel… Industrial, compared to the woods outside.

Their ceiling lights turn orange as the sun goes down.

Adora yawns. She throws off her dirty blouse and wiggles out of her shorts while Catra locks the door and windows. She pauses by the fabricator, and considers running it in silent mode overnight to produce some furniture assembly kits.

“Come to bed, Cat.”

Catra looks over at Adora, lying with her head on the beige pillow, a sheet thrown over her; hiding none of her near-divine mix of soft curves and cut muscle. It’s be _incredibly sexy_ if they weren’t both so tired it feel like their heads were full of cotton.

Catra shrugs off her flannel. “Did you even brush your teeth?”

“ _Too tired,_ ” Adora whines.

She finishes undressing, and then she crawls into bed, cuddling up bare skin to fur; the most comforting feeling in the world.

* * *

Adora wakes, heart galloping, and casts about in the darkness of night. Visions of death fade from her mind as her hand touches Catra’s shoulder, and she pulls the — no, _her_ sleeping catgirl close.

* * *

Catra wakes to the sound of the fabricator running.

“Hey sleepyhead,” Adora says. “You know what this place needs?”

Catra rubs the sleep out of her eyes. The opposite the bed is casting a nice warm ray of sunshine on her, and she is _very_ disinclined to move from it.

“A _fireplace._ ”

Adora lifts the _big_ drill. The item taking shape on the fabricator bed is a chimney pipe.

“Not before coffee,” Catra groans.

Adora dances over to the kitchen, pouring a fresh cup.

* * *

By noon, they have it all done. Lightweight furniture is faster to fabricate than heavy stuff. Adora paints the outer walls a charming warm brown; the inside has gotten a nice faux-wood panelling — really just a single layer of veneer — and collapsible dividing walls to give the option of making the bed- and bathrooms separate from the living space.

A house for two. Dimensioned for seven-feet tall demigoddesses. The bed is gigantic, the shower head is on the ceiling, the kitchen is built from standard kitchen-furnishing elements, but on a raised platform, giving it a ‘firestep’ for normal-sized people. Final floor plan is large for a single-room wilderness cabin, but still intimate.

Adora puts a lid on the paint bucket, throws the roller in a bag, and wipes the paint stains off her fingers with a rag, leaving died up clay paint splotches on her skin.

She comes onto the patio and Catra hands her a cold beer. The sun is warm, but he air is growing colder already.

“So,” Adora says, dumping down into the patio chair next to Catra. “What the fuck are we going to do for the rest of the day?”

Catra looks over at the stack of full-length tree trunks lying off to the side; it is still far too wet to be useful for firewood. “I haven’t really been doing anything strenuous; I could split some wood while you watch?”

Adora ponders the prospect of watching Catra work in her backless top. “Maybe later.”

“There’s a lake a few miles north. Fishing?”

“Only if we bring like, a cask of beer,” Adora says.

* * *

There’s not really anything that bites, but fishing is as good an excuse as any to sit around and do nothing for hours on end in the afternoon sun, for two people who are incapable of sitting back and relaxing.

Which is to say, Catra had the skill once, but has long since lost it; for Adora the problem is congenital.

“Say; other than bringing like a thousand people back to life without burning up, have you noticed anything new about your powers?” Catra asks.

“I haven’t really thought about She-Ra stuff.”

“Back at the triage hall, Peeks—”

“Peeks?”

“— Peekablue flagged me down while you went to look for Sparkles and Flyboy. Sweet Bee— did you know that bitch almost tried to usurp Prime as galactic emperor?”

“What?” Adora says.

“There’s something wrong with her head, the way Peeks tells it. She seemed pretty level headed the few times I ran into her; getting mentored by DeeTee.”

“Oh. Kinda like Meteora? She seemed okay too, at first.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Catra says. “Anyway, I tried to do something about it, like I did with; what was the third Candila royal called?”

“Peftasteri.”

“Her. I did the same thing. It worked a _lot_ better. And fixing up Scorpia was a lot easier than Cometa… I think I’ve gotten better at healing; in my own way.”

“Huh,” Adora says.

They sit there in silence for a while. Catra empties her mug, and holds her fishing rod in backhand and tail while she taps herself a refill.

“Let me just try something,” Adora says.

Then there’s a flash of light, and there on the log by the lakeside, holding a fishing rod, is normal-sized Adora in a battle-damaged white hazard suit.

“Holy shit!” Adora exclaims. Then there’s another flash of light, and she’s back to being She-Ra in leisurewear sans fashion sense.

“You can transform again!”

Adora hits herself on the forehead. “Of course! It makes sense!”

“What, it does?”

“Shapeshifting! That’s a _Melog thing!_ Healing? A _She-Ra thing!_ We traded powers!”

Catra sits there, surprised, sure, but more over just happy to look at Adora geeking out. That’s when it hits her. “Your tan! It’s there to protect you from starlight!”

“Oh. Oh, that makes a lot of sense; overuse feels like sunburn.”

Catra nods.

“There’s _stars_ in your hair,” Adora notes. “And your yellow eye; I’m pretty sure that glow is the just a little sliver of starlight too.”

“So, not only did we save the universe with foreplay, we managed to upgrade _each other’s_ superpowers.”

Adora looks down. She snickers.

“What?” Catra asks.

She looks at Catra. “We really are made for each other.”

Catra blushes, looks away, and takes a sip of beer.

* * *

That night, having caught nothing, way past halfway beer drunk and hungry in a way no drinking snack can really overcome, they stumble home through the woods. Adora whips up a salty, greasy veg stir-fry from frozen produce Catra has been carrying around in her bag of tricks for some inexplicable reason.

The prodigiously high-powered stove top makes quick work of the ice, water, and browning it to a crisp, and they eat on the patio while looking at the stars. With all the lights off, the galaxy itself is visible as a band of milk across the sky.

They trace out the constellations and name them silly things. The Useless Fishing Rod. The Big Drill. Catra’s Butt — Adora gets a punch for that one, then a kiss.

That kiss becomes another. And then another; and a caress on the cheek, and then Catra pulls Adora over on top of her, and the patio chair creaks dangerously under their combined weight.

“Bed?”

“Bed.”

They leave a trail of discarded clothing on their way.

The bed holds up by design, even as the windows fog; the bedsheets not so much.

* * *

Catra can’t sleep, despite the post-coital bliss. It was awkward at first, and then it got pretty good. The taste of her sweat lingers on her tongue. She lies there in the dark tracing Adora’s scars with a gentle fingerpad.

Ten long parallel lines on the back. Six little bullet scars on the shoulder, and a big one over the heart. Claw marks on the thigh; burn scar on the foot…

Scars Adora got fighting her and the people on her side.

She lies there, looking at the dark ceiling; out the window, and everywhere else. She considers getting out of bed, but then again that would mean leaving Adora — wonderful Adora — behind.

Her thoughts circle back to the past. Especially the bad parts. All the horrible shit she did to Adora during the past year; to her friends. She tires to imagine what all the people she hurt must have felt.

Eventually, as emotionally painful as that death spiral is, it gets tiring, and Catra grabs her communicator, shifts her hands into something more amenable to typing on a screen, and picks a random contact to chat with.

A third of a world away to the east, it is late morning, and Double Trouble is doing nothing in particular. They talk for a spell. Catra admits to eloping, Double Trouble congratulates her.

> `Finally managed to capture your Adora, huh? Though not in the way you imagined, I should think.`

Then they go into fascinating detail — just suggestive enough to give ideas, but not enough graphic enough to overshare — on some of the many possibilities of shapeshifting in the bedroom.

Catra dismisses most of it out of hand.

Suddenly hours have gone by, and Catra signs off. Putting the device away to try to get at least a few hours.

Adora stirs, and turns to her.

“ _Hey,_ ” she whispers.

“ _Hey,_ ” Adora mutters.

They lie there in the dark, looking at each other. Catra reaches out and caresses Adora’s face. “Go back to sleep, Ad,” she says.

Adora shakes her head. “Nightmare.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

Another shake. “You?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Adora rolls over on her back. “I don’t know why I’m scared when I sleep,” she mutters.

“Would it help to be the little spoon?” Catra suggests.

“What?”

“Well, if you de-transform or whatever, you could cuddle up to me.”

Adora sits up in bed, and crawls over to the edge, then from a space in her mind she only found that evening, draws the clothes she’s wearing in her mortal form. The battle-damaged armor clatters to the ground.

Then she crawls back to Catra, and snuggles up in Catra’s arms, and… Lets go.

Suddenly Catra is a _lot_ bigger.

Warm. Soft. Safe. Pleasantly musky. Catra snuggles up to her, and she closes her eyes. Even just her deep, solid breathing is… There.

Not for a lack of trying, Adora can’t find sleep. Eventually she turns back to face Catra and kisses her. Catra returns the favor. The size of her fingers alone takes Adora’s breath away.

* * *

Come morning they fabricate a new set out of claw-proof woven spider silk.

They finally get out of bed a little before noon. Catra throws the bedsheets in the laundry, Adora turns on the shower. They’ve made the cabin big enough for two, and sturdy enough to take it when Adora bumps Catra against its walls.

Catra gouges out a new set of scars for Adora; scars she can trace with gentle fingertips without a hint of regret.

* * *

Foolishly they dress for a day of action: Catra in her thigh high leg-warmers, shorts, halterneck top, and even the shoulders and neck of her rash guard. Adora does only her white full one-piece skin-tight jumpsuit.

They make breakfast together, and burn the eggs horribly when Catra decides to seat herself on the kitchen table, and Adora takes the opportunity to come between her knees for a kiss.

That little gap between Catra’s shorts and legwarmers is _especially_ enticing. Adora wonders if Catra put this outfit together back on the Swift Wind _specifically_ with this in mind.

* * *

Adora stands against the door frame, watching Catra saw up one of the trunks and split it, starting a firewood stack under a newly installed roof overhang. She bites her lip, watching Catra’s back flex and move as she handles the heavy splitting ax.

“Should I do another one?” She calls to Adora.

Adora shakes her head and makes a come-hither gesture.

Catra is quick to sink the ax into the chopping block and get out of her flannel. With her strength, it’s no trouble, up against something as ungainly as a door frame.

The jumpsuit zips from neck to crotch — not with a proper zipper, but with a mechanism that simply parts the sturdy elastic fabric. Catra’s raspy tongue is almost too much.

* * *

That night, Catra regales the tale of how she pretended to transform just like She-Ra to convince the Magicats that Melog was indeed a peer of She-Ra.

Adora asks to see.

And then, touch.

Catra is so small and delicate under her touch; it’s delectable how she purrs. Again it comes down to those big, strong hands.

* * *

“You know, maybe we’re missing out,” Catra ponders.

“On what?”

“On what it would have been like if we got together before all of this started?”

Finding out is easy.

The bed really is only proportioned for the two of them in full She-Ra and Melog form. Without, it is just an ocean of bed sheets.

But then again, they don’t have to worry about ever accidentally reaching the edge of the mattress.

It’s decently fun, and down-to-earth; a pleasant diversion from the nigh-divine prowess of their true forms.

* * *

“You know, we could take a walk in the woods or something,” Adora suggests.

“Nah. Maybe tomorrow,” Catra says, and pulls Adora back to bed.

* * *

Adora comes home with a whole deer, and shows Catra how Bow taught her to wield a boning knife. This time they set an actual timer; it’s a shame to waste a good roast.

Still they almost do; tumbling around on the floor, which isn’t at all as uncomfortable as it sounds when you’re built to shrug off a kick from a horse.

* * *

“You know,” Adora says, twirling Halcyon around her fingers like a liquid strand of gold. “This thing can turn into _anything_ I ask for, even if I’m _really_ vague.”

“Yeah?”

“I wonder if it can turn into anything _fun._ ”

It can. _Very_ fun things. Catra can barely stand on her feet for the entire day.

* * *

For once, they actually do go for a walk in the woods. Catra gives Adora a ride on her beast form; they climb an old tree, drink clear, icy water from small spring.

It doesn’t go beyond kisses and nibbles; making love in nature is really unhygienic.

* * *

Glimmer blinks into the forest. It is very different from the Whispering Woods. Much less… Magical. According to the local ranger chapter — a totally different organization compared to the Brightmoon corps — the most dangerous thing out here is wild boar and wolves.

The small house is easy enough to spot, and she heads there on foot, enjoying finally having mastered her new legs.

As she approaches, she hears laughter inside, and a heavy ‘ _thud_ ’ as something person-sized falls on the floor.

“Hey!” she calls out. “Adora? Catra?”

“ _Oh shit, it’s Sparkles!_ ” Catra’s voice comes from inside. “ _Uh! Give us a minute. We’re indecent!_ ”

She smiles to herself, and gives them one minute by the clock, before she blinks to the door.

Adora is trying to brush her hair out, and Catra is making the bed.

“Hey Sparkles!”

Adora waves, sheepishly with a hair elastic between her teeth.

“So, I take it you two are… Getting along.”

Adora blushes.

“Sparkles, don’t make me pull the receipts on what you and Bow were like on the Swift Wind,” Catra says.

“Fair point,” Glimmer says. “Catra, can I talk to you for a minute? Alone?”

“What, without me?” Adora says, pouting.

“Don’t you dare whine,” Catra says, “or I am going to _break_ you tonight.”

Adora pouts, and whines.

Catra squints at her. “You asked for it. Don’t you dare say otherwise.”

Then she brushes past Glimmer with long strides, and Glimmer kicks off, fluttering after Catra.

Once they’re a hundred paces from the house, Catra stops. “Cast a silence spell.”

Glimmer does.

“So. Talk.”

“Right. I’m getting married.”

“Congrats,” Catra says.

“You already knew that.”

“Congrats anyway.”

“The actual date is next week, but I need someone to plan a bachelorette party before that,” Glimmer says.

Catra tilts her head. “Why _me?_ ”

“Location. I was thinking Capital would be a good place; you know the taverns there, I assume.”

Catra nods. “I’m sure I could figure something out. I’ve never planned a party before.”

“I’m sure you’ll do well; and… Surprise me. Also… Do you want to be my best?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

Glimmer blinks. “Well, traditionally, noble marriages would have the bride and groom both select their best duelist — for hire, or just a friend — to defend them from any jealous suitors. Nowadays it’s just a title of honor for your best friend.”

Catra puts a hand on Glimmer’s shoulder. “I’d love to. But why me and not… Mermista or even Adora.”

“Because you saved me on the Velvet Glove.”

Catra blinks. “Oh. I— I’m…”

Glimmer steps forward and hugs her, then she pulls back. “And if you hadn’t, well… I wouldn’t be marrying the love of my life right now. It was awfully nice of you.”

“Aw, Sparkles,” Catra says, her voice breaking. “You’re making me tear up.” She wipes her eyes.

Glimmer steps back. “So, what do you say?”

“I’d love to. Now;” Catra claps her hands together. “Why don’t you stay for tea? Tell us about the legs, for one. I could tell Ad was _dying_ to ask you; and I’ve something of an interest born of personal experience.”

* * *

“So what _did_ Glimmer want?” Adora asks.

“She wanted me to plan her a pre-wedding bash. And she invited me to attend the wedding as her formally recognized best friend.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It was very touching.” Catra’s voice cracks a little.

“Aw,” Adora coos, and pulls Catra into a hug.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook tonight.”

“I’m counting on it.”

* * *

Bow has the decency to call ahead, and arrives a little after lunch, by glider.

They stand on the patio and watches him land the small craft skillfully.

He takes off his flight helmet, and undoes the heavy coat. “It’s pretty hard to make a good landing in-between the trees,” he notes, as he steps onto the patio. “This is a really nice little place for eloping.”

“Thanks,” Catra says. “It was my idea.”

“We worked together,” Adora says.

He looks around. “Any good game?”

“A little,” Adora says. “You can stay for dinner if you’d like, we’ll cook up some venison.”

Bow nods. “Thanks but no thanks, I have a previous engagement, and I don’t want to keep you two from tearing the clothes off each other—”

“Rude!” Catra exclaims, mock offended.

Bow looks at her. “Listen, ever since Krytis, it’s been _so damn apparent_ that you two couldn’t wait to jump one another’s bones. I’m actually kind of sorry that I didn’t say anything; but then… I had my own things to think about.”

“Glimmer actually said something, but she was drunk, so I took it with a grain of salt,” Adora says. “It was all a big misunderstanding, really. Catra overhead me saying something to Starla; before I actually realized how I felt… It’s a long story. What can we do for you?”

He looks at Adora. “Can I borrow you for a little while, Captain?”

Adora looks at Catra, who shrugs.

* * *

They trek away from the house at a very good pace.

“You know this already, but me and Glimmer are about to tie the knot.”

“Yeah, next week. I’m really happy for you two.”

“Yeah. So… There’s this tradition; I’m not sure you know of it, but before getting married, it’s custom to throw a party; one last night of drunken revelry before the blissful peace of marriage. Normally it’s an all-men thing, but… You’re my Captain.”

“You want _me_ to arrange it? I’m a _terrible_ party planner.”

“I was thinking we’d hold it away from home actually, which is where you come in.”

“What, like Capital?”

He nods.

“Oh. Sure. I can do that. I’ll figure something out; no problemo,” Adora says, trying her best to conceal her nervousness.

“And… One more thing. Adora, I want you to be my best, at the wedding. Will you do that for me?” Bow asks.

“Uh, like the formally recognized best friend?”

Bow furrows his brows, smiling in confusion. “That’s an odd way to put it, but yeah, essentially.”

“Why me, of all people?”

Bow looks at her, dumbfounded. Then he laughs a good long hearty laugh. “Because you’re my Captain, Adora. And I love you; you’re my best damn friend in the whole world.” He pats her on the shoulder.

* * *

Bow doesn’t stay for tea. They wave goodbye to him as he takes off.

Adora turns to Catra with the biggest, shit-eating grin in the world.

“What?”

* * *

Catra upholds her threat. She’s no stranger to carrying a prodigious tool on her belt. But this time it isn’t a revolver.

“ _I love you, Catra!_ ”

“I love you too, Adora.”


	2. A Royal Wedding, Part 1

“Hello everyone,” Castaspella says, addressing the roundtable of Mystacor’s High Council. “And thank you for coming on such short notice.”

It’s an uneasy mix of faces; some fought in the resistance, others served under Micah, sanitized. Three dozen seats, as usual; but with two vacancies who perished in the war. There is not and have never been a set number of council members. Thirty-four is their number today.

"I want to emphasize one thing: I have consulted with the legal scholars, and it seems apparent to all that sanitization is grounds for general legal defense of insanity. I know some of us here were sanitized — including quite significantly my own brother — and I urge us all to look past that.

“We owe it to our self-image as women and men of science.”

She folds her hands.

“Now, for today’s agenda, we have a guest speaker with a very interesting proposal. May I introduce Huntara of the Crimson Wastes, Wielder of the Stone Heart.”

With a gesture, the main doors open, and Huntara strides in. Even for an orc, and especially one of venerable age, she is huge and muscular, and she dresses to accentuate that fact. There is definitely a few of the sorcerers present who take a moment too long to appreciate her looks.

She takes up position by the speaker’s lectern, and looks to Castaspella, who gestures for her to proceed.

“Distinguished Mages of Mystacor, thank you very much for having me. I come to you with a humble proposal. Take this not to mean it is trivial, but to mean I carry with me no expectation and no leverage. You are in other words, free to decide any way you like — I’m told you appreciate that sort of freedom.”

She clears her throat.

“I propose you take Mystacor across the ocean once more, and deposit the islands where they sat in ages past; and in the process attempt to reverse the damage the levitation spell caused to my homelands.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence.

Castaspella holds up a hand. “Please, my fellows, allow yourself for a moment _not_ to outright reject the idea. Huntara, please state your justifications.”

Huntara nods. "I have conversed at length with Damara, the previous She-Ra, and consulted the work of the resistance archaeology team. With due respect to this illustrious institution of the college of magic, allow me for a moment to extend congratulations.

"Mystacor was, to our knowledge, founded by the First-One named Serenia, the Captain of the spacecraft Safe Travels. Together with the Swift Wind, they formed the Grayskull Squadron, a rebellious cell who sought to undermine their superior’s plans to create on Etheria a weapon more powerful than any other: the Heart of Etheria.

"After the previous She-Ra sequestered Etheria and Sola within a despondent pocket of space to prevent the First-Ones’ extra-Etherian forces from obtaining the Heart, Serenia took it upon herself and her crew to destroy it. To this end, they created the Crystal of Arxia, and founded a school of sorcerous and learning that would eventually become the college of Mystacor.

"The intended purpose of the founder of Mystacor, in other words, was for the destruction of the Heart of Etheria, by using the Crystal of Arxia. That goal has been accomplished. It is rare, in my considered opinion, that an organization achieves the goal it was founded to accomplish; I think it is grounds for great acclaim that Mystacor has fulfilled its intended purpose. The universe is saved today, because Mystacor persevered through the centuries.

"And then, to that, I posit a question: was the Levitation a necessary component of this perseverance? Arguably, yes. Little material can be found on the Orc Kingdoms, but — remaining critical of the sources — historical evidence here at Mystacor would suggest political tensions were running high. Had Mystacor not become a motile nation, it might have been conquered, and the college destroyed along with the Crystal of Arxia.

"Levitation is what allowed Mystacor bargaining power on a geopolitical scale, granting it the leverage to negotiate: abide by our hard demands, or we will simply move elsewhere. Under the near-immortal angelic rulers of the Brightmoon dynasty, you found a desirable level of political stability and have been anchored there ever since.

"Now, the world stands on the precipice of a new era. The Queen of Brightmoon I hear desires to not only abdicate, but overthrow the aristocracy in a peaceful revolution, so as to pre-empt an eventual violent one. As for sorcery, the very learning your college provides, the Queen again has disrupted the world by designing the spell-glove.

"What I am saying, if I have a point, and this is not just the ramblings of an old woman; is that you have an opportunity to change with the times. The college of Mystacor is not a levitating archipelago; it is an _institution_ and institutions are made of _people._ Perhaps it is time to consider whether headquartering on such inaccessible terrain is going to hurt the institution in the long run.

"What others, who are more knowledgable than I, predict is that the peasantry of Brightmoon will very soon be looking to pursue higher educations in mass numbers. Consider what accepting my proposal will carry: the opportunity to construct a new headquarters for the college, accessible to these masses; and the opportunity to create a new image, not of a venerable institution adhering to old ways.

“And imagine if the Crimson Wastes could be turnt once more fertile: Mystacor could take part of the credit. Appear magnanimous in the public eye, willing to give up their ancestral property so that other peoples can have a brighter future.”

Huntara brushes off the lectern. It is dusty.

“That is all.”

Castaspella starts applauding, and she is joind by others around the table.

“Thank you, Huntara, for such a well-considered speech,” she says. "Now, let us commence discussion. Who here finds issue with Huntara’s reasoning or rhetoric?

Many do. Sorcerers are pedants, the lot of them. The debate rages for most of the afternoon, and a clear factioning of the council occurs: those for, and those against.

In the end, it is an even split: seventeen for, seventeen against.

“Well, headmistress,” the emergent faction-leader of the ‘against’ crowd says; the master of the catacombs. “It seems the council is at an impasse. And therefore the status quo will be honored.”

“Indeed,” Castaspella says.

There’s a knock on the gates to the council chamber.

Castaspella stands and gestures, causing the gate to open.

There, stands Micah. His long hair tied in a queue, beard cropped close to the chin, and dressed in a battle-mage’s gala tunic. For his late-middle age, he is remarkably well-shaped; owing in no small part to fifteen years on an island of horrors.

“Hello, my esteemed colleagus; friends,” he says.

“King Micah,” someone exclaims.

“Please, I am no king; my daughter is the Queen Regent now, soon to wed. No, I heard there was a meet of the council called, and I thought to attend. I apologize for my tardiness; I come straight from vacation with my wife — we have lost time to make up for.”

“Brother, it is good to see you,” Castaspella says.

“I was wondering,” he says. “As the former grandmaster of battle sorcery, and my tenure as official liaison to the Brightmoon dynasty, do I still hold a mandate at the council?”

Nobody objects, although many see where this is going.

“From Huntara’s presence, I assume we are voting on that proposal of hers? I confess I am part of the resistance archeology team, so I have some inkling as to what.”

“Indeed you are correct, Brother.”

The motion passes eighteen against seventeen. Several well-regarded sorcerers hand in their resignations that day.

* * *

That afternoon after Bow left, it start pouring.

As aftercare, Catra lights the fireplace with firewood from a standing dead; the construction foam is naturally insulating, making the whole house toasty warm. It’s late, but neither of them are tired.

Catra has fabricated a prodigiously large bathtub, and run rainwater through the water purifier to fill it.

“So. Who are we going to invite?” Catra asks, snuggling up against Adora.

“Fuck…”

“We just did; I was under the impression the whole begging me to stop part was genuine.”

“I mean, I don’t know. Everyone who wants to go.”

Catra splashes the water with a long slender leg; water runs off her fur. “The real question, in my mind is: do we _tell_ people that we’re doing two parallel bar-crawls ending in the same establishment, or not?”

“Obviously. Part of the fun is knowing, isn’t it?”

Catra turns to look at her. “You’re a terrible liar; especailly when it comes to trivialities.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The rain drums on the roof and windows.

“Did you know it’s been a week?” Adora asks.

“Only? Feels like longer.”

“It does.”

“Happy one week anniversary,” Catra says. She reaches over to the hovertray and takes her glass of wine. Adora reaches over the lip of the tub to get hers. They toast.

“Maybe we should get back to it,” Catra suggests. “Get up in the morning and not just screw until noon-ish.”

“It’s been a while since we sparred.”

Catra snorts. “I think, in retrospect, the reason we did that so much on the ’Wind and not here, is that it was like; the closest thing to fucking we had the courage to actually do. And also, I can still take you.”

“Whoever loses makes breakfast and does the dishes.”

Not that that is much of a chore with a dishwashing machine installed.

“Deal.”

Catra reaches out, and in her hand a notepad appears. She divides the paper in halves with a vertical line, and writes ‘ _Sparkles - Cat_ ’ in one and ‘ _Flyboy - Ad_ ’ in the other.

“So. Who?”

* * *

They end up almost falling asleep in the tub.

Nobody wins their morning spar; it predictably devolves into a makeout session that ends up with both of them in bed. And then in the shower. And then it’s almost but not quite noon.

“Okay, we really need to go now,” Adora says, as they’re finally getting dressed. Adora dons her signature She-Ra outfit, and then in her everyday form, a ‘casual battledress’ style of jacket in Brightmoon-purple velvet, a skirt in Candilan orange, kept up by belt with Halcyon as the buckle; and bright red boots.

Catra wears a red canvas coat, a big grey scarf, thermo-leggins, and semi-heeled black boots. But then, she can change into anything in her wardrobe at a moment’s notice.

It’s getting cold out.

As they leave, Adora leaves the door unlocked and takes out a marker, writing on the metal of the door:

> _Here lives_  
>  _Catra daughter of Clawdia: Melog_  
>  _Adora daughter of Damara: She-Ra_  
>  _the door is open to all who need shelter_

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“What if some asshole decides to trash it? Or steal our stuff?”

“Then we rebuild. All this place cost us is time. Suppose we lock it and someone lost in the wods has to spend the night out in the cold; wouldn’t that be worse?”

Catra nods. “All right, hero.” She gestures. “Your spelling’s gotten better.”

“Yeah, it has. It’s also easier to read. Do you think that’s another thing you fixed with me?”

Catra shrugs. “Who knows.”

“You remember way back in school when we learned some people had last names?” Catra says.

Adora snickers. “Yeah; what was it, Applesauce Meowmeow?”

“Bold of you to laugh, Happysmile Rainbowpunch.”

“Rainbow _fist_ , thank you.”

Catra gestures, calling up a portal. “After you Rainbowfart.”

“Sure thing, Applepie,” Adora says as she goes through.

“That’s not even derogatory — that’s just kind of cute,” Catra says as she follows.

* * *

They step through onto the cobble streets of Plumeria; the city not only _in_ the Whispering Woods, but _of_ it. Near every building is shaped from living tree. It’s still morning here.

The climate is also a lot warmer, this far south; Adora zips her jacket down, and Catra vanishes her scarf, unbuttoning a few buttons.

“Excuse me,” Adora says, flagging down a passersby minotaur woman dressed in flowing skirts and shawls, carrying a basket under one arm, dragging a child with her other hand, and followed by a buddy-bot carrying two more baskets. “We’re looking for the Princess?”

The woman points at the great tree in the center of town, larger than other others — not enough to loom, but enough to stand out — and in its crown sits the Heartblossom; looking not unlike a gigantic red rose. Adora blinks, and it is a gold chrysantemum. Then it is a hyacinth.

“You’ve never been here?” Catra asks. “ _I_ could have figured that out.”

They head there on foot, and it becomes readily apparent just how popular buddy-bots are. Nearly one in three passersby is accompanied by one. There’s also no sign of plant-beasts.

“I bet Kyle is over the moon,” Adora says. “His tech seems like it really helps a lot of people.”

Catra nods.

They reach the large tree and find the main entrance open, leading into a hall that seems to have just naturally opened up in the heartwood.

Upon entering, they are approached by a young priest in a light tunic. “What might I help you two with?” He asks in a gentle voice.

“We’re looking for Perfuma, we’re friends of hers.”

His smile falls a little. “Alas, the Princess has requested not to have any visitors; I understand there’s a personal crisis with her lady love.”

Adora and Catra look at each other. “Could you just go up there and tell them that She-Ra and Melog are here to help if they need it?” Catra asks.

The man blinks, looking at Adora. “She-Ra?” He ponders for a moment. “It never hurts to ask. Wait right here.”

He walks off at a normal pace. He is no servant, after all.

A minute later, he comes back down, and from the stairs, waves for them to approach.

They follow him up steps covered in a sturdy layer of bark, reaching a middle floor. He leads them to one of the small acolyte suites. “Right here. Hope you can help.”

Adora knocks on the door, and very promptly, Scorpia opens it, dressed up in Plumerian style, all pastels linen, in loose and and flowing garments.

“Oh, hey you two. Where did you disappear? And you’re… _Small_ again; both of you.”

“In the forest up north from Capital,” Catra says. “We built a little cottage, and spent the entire week in bed.”

Adora blushes. “Catra!”

“And it’s not like it’s permanent; we can turn back.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Perfuma says, coming over to them. As she takes Scorpia’s arm, it’s clear they’re dressed to be a matching set. The table inside is set with two tea cups and a kettle. “Come in, sit. Tea?”

“Tea would be lovely,” Adora says.

Scorpia takes their coats. Perfuma pours the tea.

“We actually came here to ask the two out to party next week, but—” Adora says. “What’s this ‘crisis’ the priest downstairs talked about? Or is that personal? We just want to help.”

Scorpia and Perfuma exchange glances.

The Scorpia leans forward, confidentially. “Okay, so keep this on the down low but… I’ve gotten pregnant. I was home this morning, and felt ill all of a sudden, so I went to my family physician and she gave me this test, and…”

Catra looks from her to Perfuma. “Congratulations?”

“Yeah; I mean, it’s a lot, and Perfect and I, we’re happy and all, but we’ve only been together for, what, a month? And we don’t really know if we’re ready for that kind of commitment — not that we’re not _committed,_ we’re just… Still learning.”

Perfuma smiles warmly, looking adoringly at Scorpia.

“How did it happen, don’t you have that little enhancement tattoo everyone gets? It even takes care of your monthly cycle,” Adora says.

“Well, that’s the thing,” Scorpia says. “I don’t have one; a monthly cycle. Scorpioni, the reson there’s so few of us is that our insect-nature interferes with the whole reproduction thing. We usually concieve though fertility rituals, even those couples that could in theory accomplish it without — and Perfect and I aren’t even the same species!”

“Or so we thought,” Perfuma says. “The books of blood does state that normally, Scorpioni and Humans cannot concieve, but I’m half forest nymph by blood, and now I’m a full dryad. We went to see a soothsayer who sympathetically deduced the date of conception — it happened the night after Candila, during our… Celebration of the victory.”

“But, you’re both women,” Catra says.

“I was presumed to be a boy at birth; and Dryads are natural shapeshifters, myself only more so with the Heartblossom.”

“Oh,” Catra says, flushing a little. “Well. If— If you need some advice on that; Double Trouble is the definitive expert.”

Perfuma smiles. “Naturally.”

Adora clears her throat. “So, are you considering terminating the pregnancy?”

“It’s on the table, at least, but we’re giving it some time to consider,” Scorpia says. She takes a deep breath. “So. What about that party?”

“Oh, right,” Adora says. “Glimmer and Bow are getting married.”

Then she explains the circumstances of Glimmer and Bow both, unbeknowst to one another, decided to get Adora and Glimmer to organize their pre-nuptial celebrations.

Perfuma looks at Scorpia. “Stag and Doe nights; huh. Would you like that, love?”

Scorpia smiles. “Well, according to the information pamphlet from my doctor, I shouldn’t drink. It’s this new thing they found out.”

“You can chaperone the rest of us,” Catra says. “I was thinking you, Scorpia, come celebrate with Glimmer — she did help you connect with your Runestone, althoug that turned out kind of bad afterwards. I also have Spinnerella on my list, who isn’t drinking either; you two could keep each other company while the rest of us make fools of ourselves.”

“And I’d like you to join me and Bow,” Adora says to Perfuman. “He is your ex, but you had a very amicable breakup.”

“We’re old friends, Adora; the time we spend as lovers was very pleasant. I’d love to attend,” Perfuma says. “Perhaps — are you inviting my brother as well?”

Adora nods. “But I want to talk to him one-on-one.”

* * *

She does.

It’s a plain little house wrought from living tree, down the street from the Heartblossom tree.

Seneschal opens the door almost immediately when Adora knocks: he’s wearing a poncho, clearly preparing to head out.

“Oh. You. What was it— Adora, right?” he says.

“Hello, Seneschal,” Adora says, looking away. “Look; we never parted on the best of terms after the Northern Reach. I’m really sorry for… Shooting you up there, and I never got around to actually apologizing; I just avoided you the whole trip back to Apieria because I was ashamed. I’m sorry for that too; I want to say I wasn’t in control of my own actions, but that’s not really true, I—”

Seneschal holds up a hand. “Adora, I accept your apology. I’m sorry as well for the way I treated you when you tried to help me. And I’m sorry if it seemed like I was angry with you; I wasn’t. I thought you avoided me because I was so nasty to you when I had just been injured.”

Adora stares at him, dumbfounded. Then she starts giggling. “So this was all just a misunderstanding, that’s a relief. I can’t bear the thought of people being angry with me.”

“What can I do for you, Adora?”

“Bow’s having a bachelor party; I’m arranging it.” Adora says.

“Just say the date and time,” Seneschal says with a suave smile.

“Wel… It’s going to be bar-hopping in Capital.”

Seneschal hesitates. “You know what, sure. There’s peace now, right? Might as well.”

* * *

It is even earlier in the morning in Alwyn, but the weather is much the same: balmy autumn.

The harbor city sustained some battle damage during the initial days Horde invasion, when a resistance group decided to gauge the combat capabilities of the clone army, and found them more than willing to use explosive ordnance against civilian buildings used as resistance strongholds.

An unpopular move, but an infromative one, and what drove the resistance to construct their own cities of Refuge.

Hence, a portion of the city is now built from construction foam structures.

The Alwyn manor is the old royal castle, built before Brightmoon unification. By the standards of the Brightmoon Palace, it is small, decrepit, and unglamorous. That’s exactly why Spinnerella and Netossa love it there.

“Do you think we should call ahead for these things?” Adora asks.

Catra shrugs.

By the gate of the castle, over the drawbridge, they are met with a single guardswoman, nealy bald and dark skinned like a Candilan, wearing a hazard suit in Brightmoon colors, helmet at her hip, and a Yala-Zev in her holster. She’s flanked by two military-spec buddy-bots.

“Hail and well met,” Adora greets her.

“Who goes there?” The guardswoman asks.

“We’re Adora and Catra of the resistance, personal friends of Spinnerella and Netossa,” Catra presents them.

“Do you have a previous engagement?”

“No, this is just a social visit,” Catra says.

“Told you we should have called ahead,” Adora mutters.

The guardswoman shakes her head. “I’m going to have to see some proof of identity if I’m to let you in.”

Adora has Halcyon leap from her belt buckle onto her brow, and pulls her short hair into a semblance of a ponytail.

“I certainly see the resemblance, but that is not enough.”

Adora rolls her eyes, and in a flash of light, transforms.

Catra follows suit in a flicker of darkness — not that she cannot smoothly graduate between her forms.

Muttering under her breath, the guardswoman opens the gates for them — there’s a keypad and the gates open automatically.

They change back as they cross the threshold. “They’re really modernizing this place,” Adora remarks.

Inside, in the entry hall, a household drone is running a vacuum cleaner attachment. The lighting overhead is electrical.

They stand there, looking for a coat rack — not that they even put on them on again after leaving Perfuma’s.

There’s the sound of rapid footsteps from one of the wings, and Netossa comes into view. She’s wearing a leather apron, a buddy-bot headband, and holding a bluish metallic powertool. It takes Catra a moment to identify it as an omni-tool of Entrapta’s design.

“Hey, you two!” she says.

“We’re not interrupting anything, are we?”

“Just doing some renovations. Child proofing, utilities, that sort of thing.” She wipes a stand of sweaty hair away from her face. Then she beckons for them to follow.

Adora and Catra do, coming down the wing of the castle, to the relatively small — as far as castles go — living room. A military-spec buddy-bot perks up as Netossa enters, and there in a hover chair of all things, sits there in a robe, seemingly content to watch her wife do all the hard work.

“You’re really fixing this whole place up?” Adora says. “It’s going to feel like the Swift Wind soon.”

“That’s the plan,” Spinnerella says. “Did you hear Glimmer’s great big plan?”

“No?”

“She wants all nobility and petty nobility to reliquish their fiefs; disestablish aristocracy in general, and then abdicate the throne, instituting a ‘rule of the people’s vote.’ ’Toss is doing to our home all by herself more or less as a challenge, blazing a trail.”

“Yeah, I’m not super sold on adopting the Horde’s system of governance,” Netossa says, “but when the Queen says ‘turn your house into a den of high-tech luxury’ I’m not going to say no.”

“Cool.”

“What have you two turtledoves been up to?” Spinnerella asks. “I see normal-sized Adora is back.”

Catra and Adora exchange glances. “Who told you we’re together.”

“You did, the moment you walked in the door. You really must be more careful with your body language if you want to keep it secret.”

Adora puts an arm around Catra’s shoulders giving her a squeeze, and grins maliciously as color rises to her cheeks.

“ _Oh no,_ ” Catra mutters, realizing what’s about to happen.

Adora looks back at Spinnerella “We’ve built a cabin in the woods and then I fucked Catra on every horizontal surface in it; and then several vertical ones as well.”

“That’s just vulgar,” Catra mutters blushing furiously.

“Yeah, well you started it.”

Spinnerella sips her tea. “Ah, ’Toss, remember when we were newly in love?”

“Remember?” Netossa says. “I still _feel_ it sometimes, when I do paperwork.” She wiggles index and middle finger together on her right hand for illustration, while looking pointedly at Adora and Catran, giving a knowing wink and smirking.

And then Catra and Adora both realize that when it comes to vulgarity, they are thoroughly outmatched by these two.

“So. Tea?” Spinnerella asks, gesturing to the hover tray next to her.

“No thanks, we just had,” Adora says. “We’re actually here to ask you if you’d like to come to Bow and Glimmer’s bachelor and -ette parties.”

She briefly explains the circumstances.

Spinnerella gasps in deligh. “A _comedy of errors!_ We’d _love_ to attend. I’ll gladly chaperone whichever group I’m with —” she pats her belly; she’s not a slender woman by nature, so one might be fooled into thinking she’s showing at one month.

“You’re with me and Glimmer,” Catra says. “We’ll be sharing the guest lists when everyone’s invited.”

“So I’m with the cool team,” Netossa jokes. “I’d love to throw a party for Bow; he’s a good kid.”

* * *

They take a portal to downtown Brightmoon; Adora’s old stomping grounds.

Even here, everything is gradually changing. For one, the streets are noticable cleaner and the smell is much reduced. They’re built working sewers here — what’s commonly referred to as the single biggest public works project in history when it was undertaken in Capital, a construction that took years — and have made headway in a week.

They locate a tavern that accepts credits, and order a light snack.

“That’s two chaperones on my team,” Catra notes. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

“No. Scorpia and Spinnerella are both great people,” Adora says. “They’ll have a good time together while the rest of you get shitfaced.”

“So, are we going to continue west?”

Adora shakes her head. “It’s barely past midningt in Salineas; I mean, Mermista and Sea Hawk love me like I’m family; but they don’t love me _that_ much.”

“Family doesn’t normally come knocking in the middle of the night with party invitations.”

“Speaking of family,” Adora says. “I think my mom knows, but we should tell your mom too.”

Catra nods. “I’d like that.”

“Swift Wind?”

“If it’s on Etheria, sure.”

Adora takes out her communicator and writes a letter to Hope.

* * *

“I’d forgotten how it smells here,” Catra says, as they walk through the Swift Wind, hand in hand.

The fractal greenery is still painted on the walls.

They enter the control center, where Damara, Hope, Entrapta, Wrodak, and Hordak are holding an informal strategy meeting.

Wrodak and Hordak are both even more egregiously dressed; as if their ideas of fashion are accelerating away from the garb they were both forced into under Prime.

Wrodak is beginning to explore iridescent coatings and optically colored fabrics that seem not just to _be_ pink but to _radiate_ it, while staying very utilitarian in cut.

Hordak is favoring a matte black so darki it seems his waistcoat and slacks are holes in reality; today is a tuxedo day, not a ballgown day.

Damara leaps out of her seat and dashes over to the two of them, sweeping them both into a hug. “You found out how to change back!”

“I did,” Adora says.

“And it seems like you had a wonderful trip together — I knew about the two of you, of course. I haven’t gossiped, I promise,” she says the second part quietly.

“Thanks, mom.”

“Catra, you simply must tell your mother as well. She’d be deligthed to hear.”

“Ah, Captain, would I be remiss in assuming our good Catra is reinstated as Lieutenant?” Wrodak asks.

“That’s very much the case,” Adroa says, giving Catra’s hand a squeeze. “But we’re not here to announce that.”

“Well then, get to the point,” Hordak says.

“Mom, I’m arranging Bow’s bachelor party, and I can’t _not_ at least invite you,” Adora says. “ _You_ are the Swift Wind, and he’s your pilot.”

“I’d love to come,” Damara says. “I’ll chaperone; unlike others, I can actually sober up at a moment’s notice. Where are we going?”

“Bar hobbing in Capital.”

“Wrodak,” Catra says. “Same offer; Glimmer’s party. You in?”

Wrodak looks at the others. “Only me?”

“I am not close with the Queen or her prospective husband,” Hordak says. “Entrapta would find such an experience more stressful than enjoyable, and Hope is under-age.”

“`My memories date back one thousand two hundred and fourty nine years. I could convincingly appear older if I wanted to.`”

“Yeah, a public social occasion in transient locale would not be fun for me,” Entrapta says.

Wrodak looks back at Catra with a grin. “Then yes!”

* * *

“We’ve been really lucky to just find all the people we want to invite, actually having time to see us,” Adora says, as they leave the Swift Wind, stepping onto the streets of Capital.

“Yeah,” Catra says.

“Like, Scorpia could have been at home in her mansion in the Fright Zone, rather than with Perfuma.”

“Yeah.”

“And Seneschal was just about to head out.”

“Adora, you do realize that one of my powers as Melog is _luck,_ right?”

“ _Oh._ ”

Catra stops and takes out her communicator. “One moment. Call Castaspella.”

Adora raises one eyebrow.

“Hello Headmistress, it’s Catra… You’re just between meetings? I won’t take much of your time… Your niece has asked me to arrange her bachelorette party… To avoid the worst oppotunities for gossip on the home front, a bar crawl through my home city… I’m glad to hear; say do you have General Juliet near you? … Later today? Great, could you extend the invitation to her as well? … Thank you, Headmistress. No, no, you don’t have to call, a letter will do… I’ll be sure to send you the details… Have a pleasant day… And to you as well.”

Adora blinks.

Catra hangs up. “Let’s go get Lonnie and her boys.”

Catra steers the two of them down a busy street in the business district of Capital; the four lane street has been cut down to two lanes only, with temporary barriers separating the car lane from the new space designated for portal use.

They come to a restaurant — a mid-scale establishment frequented by officers and businesspeople — and head in, up the stairs to the first floor, and onto the open-air balcony hanging over the street below.

There at the corner table is Lonnie, Kyle, and Rogelio eating lunch together, all of them in uniform. Lonnie has the stripes of a Non-commanding Lieutenant General.

“Goodness me,” Rogelio says, seeing them first. “Look who it is.”

Catra flags down a waiter, indicating Adora and her are taking the table for two next to the others.

“Hello you three,” Adora says.

Lonnie is out of her seat in an eyeblink, and hugs Adora _hard._ “God damn it, Sarge,” she says. “You just ran off after it was over!”

“Sorry,” Adora says sheepishly.

Lonnie holds Adora out. “Girl, I was worried sick I had sent you down there to die, and next thing I hear the Heart is gone and you’re bringing half the infantry back to life, and then _poof_ you just vanish for a week.”

“We needed some vacation time together,” Catra says.

Lonnie looks from Adora to Catra and back. “ _Oh_ I _see._ ”

“Congratualtions, you two,” Kyle says. “Only took you what, ten years?”

Catra sticks her tongue out at him.

They sit and eat a late lunch with their old squadmates, and reminsice about old times. Kyle and Rogelio figured themselves out in the academy, and Lonnie, their very best friend, just sort of grew into that over the years.

“Honestly, I could have made a scrap-book of all the times it was blatantly obvious you two were in love,” Kyle says. “Of course, your defection threw a spanner in that, or so I thought,” he says directed to Adora.

“You even made a portmanteu of their names,” Rogelio says.

“In my defense I was fifteen and I wanted my friends to be happy,” Kyle replies.

“Speaking of wanting friends to be happy,” Catra says. “I know neither of you are close with the Royal-couple-to-be in Brightmoon, but we could really use some help planning two parallel pub-crawls.”

“Sign us up,” Lonnie says.

And finally, there’s an actual overweight of men attending the groom’s party.

* * *

“We still have some time to kill before the sun comes up in Salineas,” Adora says consulting her communicator for the time. “It’s late afternoon in Honeydew, though.”

Catra opens them a portal there; and they find it to be a _lot_ colder. Overhead, drones fly by, carrying packages. Up and down the wide street, every vehicle is a hover truck.

“Do you have a shawl or something?” Adora asks.

Catra does. “Are you cold?”

“Yes and no. I feel the cold, and it is uncomfortable, but… It feels cold the same way I felt the cold at the Southern Reach. It’s just there.”

“Same with me,” Catra says. “Like, it may _look_ like I’m my old self, but I’m Melog. I’m just ‘pretending’ to be smaller.”

“You know, I used to think of plain-old Adora as ‘normal’ and She-Ra as the ‘weapon.’ But I think you’re right. Looking like this is… A disguise. She-Ra is my true nature.”

With that in mind, they head to the castle, up the street.

“That woman does not fuck around,” Catra says. “This place is a fortress.”

For a change, they aren’t greeted at the door by a bug doll, but by a civillian-spec buddy-bot adorned with the Apierian Bee crest.

“`Adora, what a wonderful suprise. However, we don't reside at this castle at present.`”

“Sweet Bee?” Adora asks.

“`Yes. I have decomissioned my bug dolls in the face of the superior buddy-bot technology.`”

“We’re here to talk to Peeks and DeeTee,” Catra says.

“`DeeTee is inside, actually. They've been helping me keep up appearances. Follow me, please.`”

The bot leads them in through the courtyard to the keep, and from there into the sturdily constructed throne room, which lies empty as usual — there’s no court as such in Apieria. Upon the golden throne sits Sweet Bee herself.

“Oh! Kitten and her lady-love!” Sweet Bee says, rising from her seat.

“Double Trouble?” Catra asks.

“The very same. Sweetie is indisposed at the moment, so I am the ‘face’ of Apieria to allay political instability while the two eggeheads play realpolitikal musical chairs.”

“So where _are_ Peekablue and Sweet Bee?” Adora asks.

“Winter home in Candila. The warm weather is better for Sweetie; and they’ve teamed up with the King and his Abdicant Queen for a training programme to help with the whole brain damage thing.”

Double Trouble looks at Catra. “By the way, thanks, Kitten. For saving my girlfriend.”

“No problem.”

“No; I mean, she nearly fucked us all over. I knew she was a bad seed, but I thought she was… Different.” Double Trouble as Sweet Bee looks down and away. “The strange thing is, even though I know I should be disappointed and angry — it worked out in the end. And I love her, still. I want her to get better; I want to help her, so that the next time power is dangled over an abyss, she has restraint to not try to grab it and risk falling.”

“DeeTee, twenty million people disappeared off the face of Etheria because I activated a portal to spite the woman standing here next to me,” Catra says. “Neither of us are going to think it strange that you love her desipte a massive fuck-up.”

Double Trouble looks up at Catra, tears welling up. In a flicker of darkness they shift back into their preferred reptilian form. “Aw, kitten, you say the nicest things. C’mere,” they say and darts forward to hug Catra.

Catra pats Double Trouble on the back. “So, question: can Sweet Bee go without the two of you for a night?”

Double Trouble steps back. “She has an platoon of of buddy-bots under the Hive Core’s control to meet her every need. It’s just that she can’t walk, talk, or pick things up. What’s the occasion?”

“Bachelorette party. Queen Glimmer’s.”

“Oh, delectable. Peekablue and myself?”

“Actually, I’d like to invite Peekablue,” Adora says. “For Bow’s.”

Double Trouble looks from Catra to Adora, noting the conspiratorial tone, and grins. “I can _tell_ there’s a story here.”

* * *

As a courtesy, Adora sends off a letter to Sea Hawk, marked non-urgent, asking him to write back at his leisure. She gets a reply immediately, and after a short coversation, finds that they are mooring with their beloved royal yacht in a coastal town in Candila.

Catra returns with a cup of coffe for Adora. “We’re going south. The Empress is vacationing in Candila.”

“Is that everybody?”

Adora nods. “Cometa might want to come, but she’s not twenty yet; I don’t want anything dicey with bar admission laws and foreign dignitary privileges.”

“Ah. Considering Castaspella’s on my team, does Bow have any family?”

“Yeah, twelve older brothers.”

Catra chokes on her coffee. “ _What?_ ”

“As I understand, they were refugees from a place called Alexandria that got razed during the fifth conquest. Ever read about the Alexandrian massacre?”

“Oh yeah, that propmpted the War Ehtics Reforms. That was the last time they hanged anybody, right? After that it was only firing squad.”

Adora nods. “Anyway, when they started killing the men, Bow’s dads fled with all the kids they could get and all the books they could carry. Sought refuge in the Whispering Woods, hole up in this old library that used to belong to some sorcerers, and swore service to the Brightmoon crown as keepers of knowledge.”

“So Bow’s an orphan,” Catra concludes.

“Not really. George and Lance adopted all the kids as their own, and they’re some of the nicest people I’ve ever met. Bow was the youngest, just an infant; he’s never known anything else… He _did_ get into a conflict when he was a kid over wanting to be a ranger rather than an academic, but that’s about the worst of it.”

Catra sips her coffe. “It’s a good thing all our friends had better childhoods than us. It’d be heartbreaking if we were all abused war orphans.”

“Yeah. Wanna go to Candila?”

* * *

“I hope they’re not mad about that time I set their yacht on fire,” Catra mutters as they board the royal yacht, coats hanging over thier arms. They’re wearing matching white blouses under their coats.

A sailor with a Yala-Zev holstered at his hip wordlessly directs them to the stairs up to the sundeck. Adora knows her way around the yacht quite well at this point.

What’s notable is that the yacht itself seems less crewed.

“Adora!” Sea Hawk says, coming up to meet them, drink in hand, shirt upbuttoned in the warm breeze. “Goodness me, you’ve both shrunk.” He holds an arm out. “Good to see you again. Hug?”

Adora grins — it’s plain to see he’s at least tipsy. “Sure. Hi Sea Hawk, long time no see.” She hugs him.

“And Catra!” He extends a hand. Catra takes it to shake, but Sea Hawk hisses her knuckles instead. “Lovely as ever. Alas, Mermista is just below decks with little ’Dora. Wine?”

Adora and Catra exchange a quick glance. “Sure, why not.”

Sea Hawk dances over to a hover tray — the little devices are capable of staying level even in rough sea, much to every sailor’s delight.

“Now, we’re just on a day’s pleasure cruise here; we’ll be journeying home overnight; this old girl —” he taps the deck with a foot “— has gotten some _major_ upgrades. I’ve had her in dry dock, and me and the craziest youngsters in the shipwright’s guild have been using her as a test bed for all the latest tech.”

“So you can sail from Salineas to the City of Blue Waves in a _day?_ ”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it sailing; the whole hull lifts out of the water — we can only do it in clam seas, though,” Sea Hawk says, proudly. “Fastest pleasure ship in the _world._ ”

“I’d say something like ‘portals exist’ but Adora and I drove over a hundred miles just for fun a week ago,” Catra says. “Sea Hawk; Captain…”

“What is it, Catra?”

“I’m sorry I set you ship on fire that one time.”

Sea Hawk blinks. Then he laughs uproariously. “ _Oh!_ That was _you!_ My goodness, different times, eh? Catra, my girl, all is forgiven.”

Mermista returns with ’Dora on her arm. The little girl is getting big; in a few months she’ll be a year.

“Oh, you two!” Mermista says. She comes up to Adora and exchanges cheek-kisses, then pulls Catra into a brief hug. “What’s the occasion?”

“Bow and Glimmer are getting married,” Adora says.

“Why we’re invited as guests of honor!” Sea Hawk points out. “We’re _very_ happy for them. _Such_ a cute couple,” he says, sniffling.

“Don’t cry dear,” Mermista says.

“I am not crying,” Sea Hawk protests. “Well, maybe just a little; it’s been a very touching day.”

“How so?” Catra asks.

“Why, this little munchkin took her first steps!” Mermista says, ticking ’Dora unde the chin. ’Dora squirms. “Oh, se wants down. Let’s see if she wants to take a few steps.”

She crouches down and lets Dora down to stand, letting the girl hold onto her fingers. Dora squeals, and grins an earnest, almost toothless smile, then starts stepping on uneasy, uncoordinated feet, lets go and heads directly towards Catra. She makes it two steps before loosing balance and beginning to stumble.

Catra instinctively crouches down and catches ’Dora. She squeals and giggles, then notices that Catra has _fur_ and _ears_ and is generally _different_ and therefore _interesting._

“Why is she looking at me like that,” Catra says.

Dora reaches out a warm baby hand and puts it directly on Catra’s cheek.

“ _A!_ ” she says.

“She wants you to lift her,” Mermista says, “just hold her under her arms, let her sit on your forearm.”

Catra does as instructed and ’Dora doesn’t protest. She just sits there, staring at the first magicat she has ever seen. She points at Catra’s big, soft ears and babbles.

“What, my ears? Are they funny?” Catra says, and wiggles them up and down.

’Dora laughs a wonderful, pure baby’s laughter.

“Oh you like that, huh? I bet you’re going to love this, then,” Catra says and swings her white-tipped tail around, tickling ’Dora under the chin, getting yet another delighted squeal.

“Why, she’s a natural,” Sea Hawk says quietly to Adora.

Adora just stands there, smiling; feeling oddly light in her chest, and something else, below that. It’s not the first time seing little Adora has brough strange new emotions to her, but this time… This time, Catra is there.

Adora has to wrest her eyes away. “We actually came here to invite you to Bow’s bachlor party, and Mermista to Glimmer’s, if you—”

“We’re in,” Mermista says.

“There’s a fun complication…” Adora continues.


	3. A Royal Wedding, Part 2

The Red City is a disaster area; there’s no subtle way to say it. Under Horde rule, cleanup efforts went slow, now, liberate, the nation’s power structures are struggling with the loss of _another_ ruler.

With Asteirion and her sister, she has taken refuge in the hunting lodge her family has always gone to to avoid the wet season. Together, the two of them commute regularly to the city to help, Cometa more-so than her brother-in-law.

Ironically, the poor have suffered the least: the palace is the epicenter of Meteora and Huntara’s destruction, and surrounding it is the townhouses of the rich and powerful, which means the casualties are counted among those whose families can shoulder loss the best; and the serving staff, which is the more far-reaching tragedy.

Hundreds are dead, if not thousands. Some in the battle itself when Meteora decided to start collapsing buildings to attempt to stop the resistance; some when the true extent of Huntara’s meddling with the underground led to dozens of sinkholes opening up, swallowing street corners and unsettling foundations; an unlucky few were caught in the catacombs beneath the city when Meteora’s metal made its way underground.

But there’s hope. There’s hope, because it took Cometa a _day_ to undo the horrific forests of metallic doom enough that the palace was once more accessible by means other than portal travel. There’s hope because… Because life goes on, despite the horrific destruction wrought on the seat of power in Candila.

The nobles and rich merchants now bereft of (at least one) home have all been more than favorably predisposed to the influx of new technology, and its power in assisting with the relief effort. Meanwhile, the unchecked slums by the river have been left to their own devices, to flourish.

Candila has always been one of the most industrious nations on Etheria, and the people’s spirit has not been broken. Come the end of the year, Candila will have the highest adoption rates of fabrication technology.

 _Queen_ Cometa maintains her focus on the humanitarian work to an almost unhealthy degree. A trait which will one day have her remembered as _Good Queen Cometa,_ but for now she nears her breaking point, even if her proud visage, two-colored hair, and shiny armor does not convey it as she directs the hundreds of men and women sworn to her service, and thousands more volunteering, making up the direct relief effort. It cannot rightly be said that Queen Glimmer is much her senior, but she was always slated to take her mother’s throne.

Peftasteri was Queen. And then it was going to be Meteora’s offspring before Cometa.

Her saving grace comes one day. After sleeping little and eating less, on a hot noon, when dehydration almost gets to her, Cometa looks up, and sees a trick of the light in the sky.

Only it’s not a trick. It’s a giant golden bird.

If only she had followed the news, she would have known Nebularia was sending a diplomatic delegation, and that today is the earliest that Hope has declared low orbit sufficiently free of debris to safely permit portal-free ascent and descent through its altitudes.

Now she finds out, when Glory lands there, in the plaza, and from their back, Starla slides adeptly down, wearing a patched hazard suit. The stout girl removes her helmet, her orange locks bound in a ponytail, and then sets out towards Cometa.

“Let her through,” Cometa says absent-mindedly to her guards, and they let her.

Starla stops a few steps away. A massive scar runs from her pate to her chin, through one eye. Said eye is silvery and faceted — a cybernetic replacement.

“Hey,” Starla says.

“Hey.”

“You look like you could use a friend right now. And a break.”

Cometa _really_ could. Not the least of which because she just spent two weeks not knowing if her friend was dead; and not daring to find out.

What’s unspoken is that Starla could use one as well. Someone who doesn’t see her as a hero; a personal friend of She-Ra, and one day perhaps the Defender of Nebularia. Someone who isn’t family, at least.

In the near future, they fall deeply and irrevocably in love, but for now, friendship is just what both of them need. No reason not to take it slow when the universe is saved, and only in need of a bit of fixing up.

* * *

“Brothers, I want to thank you for meeting with me peacefully,” Hordak says.

He and the ‘leaders’ of the Southern Reach base have met on a windswept coastline, covered in frazil ice.

The group in front of him look as miserable as he recalls feeling when he first landed on Etheria, and the world prison had cut him off from his psychic connection to Prime.

Their burgeoning individuality has been shaped by their nominal positions of military command.

Hordak has come alone. Of course there is backup if thins go south: he is carrying an omnitool that can in a pinch become a bulletproof shield, and a tuned-up Yala-Zev under his coat. That, and there’s a pair of cloaked buddy-drones hovering out over the sea.

He remembers well how volatile he was back then; but for him it was all hampered by his allergies. These brothers of his are hale, distraught, and armed.

“Brother,” the foremost clone says. “What do you wish to tell us?”

“First that I have a name. I am Hordak. And second, that I was the last flesh our big brother inhabited before he was lost to us forever.”

There’s some murmurs among the small group.

“What I want to say to you is this: I know how you feel, right now, in this very moment. Because I have been where you are now. And if you will permit me, I want to help all my brethren avoid the same traps I fell into.”

“What do you mean ‘traps,’ are we to be hunted by an enemy?” one of them asks.

Ah yes. Always so literal. “No. I mean that the path to independence is necessary to metaphorically traverse, and full of perils, which are known to me.”

“Why should we listen to you; you’re an affiliate of She-Ra! She killed us!”

There’s a round of assenting murmurs.

“I used to be her enemy too,” Hordak says. “This will be difficult to understand; difficult to accept… But Prime never loved any of us. She-Ra does.”

There’s a round of laughter. “As if! Now you are just talking nonsense.”

“Fine, you mock my speech,” Hordak says. “You have all read your dictionaries. What is love?”

“Prime’s light,” one says.

“And why is that desirable to spread throughout the universe?”

This one they know. “Because it is his kindness. He brings peace to the warring worlds, so that people may live in harmony.”

Hordak smiles. “What does Prime stand to gain from this? Is one of you a logistician? I want figures.”

“It’s a net loss; production is always making up for the lost manpower and materiel in the mission,” another says.

“So. Love is the giving of kindness, without expectation of gain; wouldn’t you say?”

There’s some exchanged looks, then some nods.

Now comes the dangerous part: “Name three kind things Prime has ever done for any of you, which did not serve himself in some way.”

 _Wrodak I hope I’m making you proud, brother._ Hordak thinks to himself with a reserved smile, as discussion erupts.

* * *

Clawdia steps through the portal to the coordinates she received, and arrives in a beautiful autumn forest. The sound of laughter meets her ears, and she turns around to see a small cabin in the distance, clearly built from construction foam.

A few dozen feet away from it, sits a swing-set, and there, on each their swing, is a girl. One a magicat, the other a human.

She sets out through the fallen leaves covering the forest floor, towards the house, and one of them spots her.

The magicat girl comes running, and Clawdia recognizes her. “Mom!”

“Catra!” Clawdia says. True enough, it _is_ Catra; except it is not the seven-foot tall woman she met in Leijon’s living room in Refuge II. It’s a young woman much her own height, looking perfectly ordinary except perhaps for the stunningly brilliant heterochromatic eyes.

“Hey,” Catra says.

“You look different,” Clawdia says.

“Yeah, this is what I used to look like, before I became Melog.”

Clawdia smiles; it’s always a joy to see one’s children grow up into beautiful adults. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Are you going to give your mother a hug?”

That, she is. And then Catra takes her hand and leads her up to the house, where Adora is waiting on the patio. "Mom, I want you to meet Adora.

“Good evening, ma’am,” Adora says, holding out a hand. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

Clawdia takes her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Catra has told me much about you.”

“I could say the same,” Adora says.

Adora looks at Catra, and Catra walks up beside her and takes her hand. “Yeah. So… Mom, this is her.”

Adora and Catra’s eyes meet, and for a moment they almost forget that Clawdia is there. And all Clawdia can really do is be happy for them. She puts a hand on Catra’s shoulder, and one on Adora’s.

“I’m very happy for the two of you,” she says. “I think many people are.”

Adora blushes. “Well, depending on how you look at it we _did_ save the universe by… Kissing. So I’d assume so.”

Catra snickers.

“Did you now? Let’s get out of the breeze — and is that our dinner I can smell?”

“Roast venison,” Adora says. “It’s had time to hang, now, so… We tried it right when I had shot it, and it wasn’t very good.”

“It was tasty,” Catra supplies, “but we should have gone for a stew, not a roast.”

“I’ll tentatively look forward to that; maybe I can give you a few pointers.”

* * *

With Clawdia’s help, dinner does turn out quite good.

“I have a… Confession to make,” Clawdia says, after the wine has come out, and the light topics have been exhausted: how they’re normal-sized again, what their vacation has been like — there was a lot of blushing when Clawdia asked that — and what’s going on in the world. “I’ve been talking to people; well, mostly Damara — your mother, Adora. And… People are uncertain. Happy, but uncertain. You haven’t told anyone what happened down there, under the earth.”

Adora and Catra look at one another. “It was…” Catra says and falters.

“I went down there to die,” Adora says. "That’s where it begins. I’d gotten the Failsafe, as the only one, and there wasn’t time to reproduce the Crystal of Arxia. Damara, myself, and others went over all we knew of it so many times trying to come up with something favorable, but even with She-Ra… I was going to die.

“All there was to do was to accept it. And I did.”

Catra puts a hand on Adora’s shoulder. Adora puts her hand on Catra’s. Clawdia already knows that Catra ran away.

"So the day came, and I went down there with Glimmer and Bow. And it was a nightmare. The Heart… It wasn’t alive, but it knew we were coming, and so it tried to stop us. We wasted a lot of time while the fighting got worse and worse up on the surface, and we didn’t even know what we were missing.

"I thought… I thought I figured it out, that I had to go alone, and I left my friends behind. But then Prime came down there, and I had to fight and flee. He managed to take She-Ra away from me, which would have been enough to spoil the plan.

"Despite that I almost made it to the Heart, and then you came with Shadow Weaver, to… Rescue me, I guess. But by then, there was no time. She-Ra was gone, and without her, I wasn’t strong enough to use the Failsafe, let alone survive it.

“You tried to hold him off to buy time, but you were too exhausted from the fighting up on the surface.”

“Goodness,” Clawdia mutters.

Catra takes over. "Shadow Weaver decided to sacrifice herself to buy us time, but before she could do that, Prime wounded you, mortally.

"You were dying, and the only way we could ever stand a chance of saving the universe was to destroy the Heart by force, which would at the very least destroy the planet. I was just about to do it, but then…

“I realized I might still be able to save you, and it turned out I was right, and I did, and we got She-Ra back, and the Failsafe worked!” Catra rushes, to get to the good part. “Everything worked out in the end!”

“It really did,” Adora says.

“So she’s dead, then?” Clawdia asks. “That horrible woman?”

Catra nods. “We saw the corpse. Well, sort of. What was left of her.”

“That seems… Uncharacteristically noble of her, from what I know,” Clawdia says.

Adora shrugs. “It’s really not. It was either fight and die or run and doom the universe.”

“Or win and face judgment and execution,” Catra adds.

Clawdia looks between the two of them. “I can tell you’re not really happy about it.”

Catra frowns. “Yeah. I mean, I know she hurt us, and I’m relieved she’s gone, but… I miss her. I know I shouldn’t.”

Adora nods.

"She was your parental figure during your formative years. Whether she was any good is secondary to that. You’ll always have to live with the impact she had on you; but I must say it’s a better starting point than most get: you will never have to deal with her ever again.

“Trust me: the pain fades. Eventually.”

* * *

Planning out the parties — well, the plan is to have a _party_ that just starts in two different locations.

As for picking the routes out, they have five people with expertise on the matter:

Scorpia has drunk away her pay at the absolute _worst_ establishments — shore leave tends to bring out the worst in seamen and junior officers, and so upscale places tend to not even allow them in the door — and also a few high-class places before and during officer school.

Lonnie, Kyle, and Rogelio who has had by far the most normal experiences with night life. Coming from respectable middle-class families the lot of them, they have visited a wide range of pubs and clubs, more determined by the quality of the experience than the exclusivity.

Double Trouble has frequented the most high-class establishments during their entire tenure as a clandestine asset to Hordak’s operations — nearly thirty-five years — and happens to know exactly where the whole experience should culminate.

For convenience’s sake; and so neither of them have to get out of bed, they conduct most of this planning towards noon, over voice call.

“ _But I mean, are you really going to put it the night before their big day?_ ” Lonnie asks, always the pragmatic. “ _There’s no rule in the book_ ” — she’s read the book — “ _that says it’s proper custom._ ”

“No,” Catra says, “but it is funny.”

“I can cure any hangovers there might be,” Adora says. “But as my mom once told me, hangover is the punishment inflicted by one’s body for revelry beyond one’s fortitude.”

“She never said that.”

“I’m paraphrasing,” Adora clarifies.

“ _It also adds some stakes, in my considered opinion,_ ” Double Trouble adds. “ _And best of all it sets all of you fools up for retaliation in kind._ ”

“ _What do you mean by that, DeeTee?_ ” Scorpia asks.

“ _Well, one day, all of you are going to be in the same situation, or am I completely wrong? And then, whoever plans_ your _pre-nuptial festivities can do the same to you._ ”

Adora and Catra look at one another.

“ _Not us, unfortunately,_ ” Rogelio rumbles. “ _It’s frowned upon to marry more than one._ ”

Double Trouble laughs. “ _Oh, Rogie, my good man… Allow me to formally extend a promise to the three of you: should you ever wish to be wed, I will petition my girlfriend, the Princess Regent of Apieria, to sign into law legitimacy of a three-way union. Then you can be the second such couple wed in Apieria, right after myself, her, and the Prince, of course._ ”

There’s a stunned silence.

“ _Really?_ ” Kyle asks. “ _Y— you would do that?_ ”

“ _Why, of course. I mean, Sweetness is a bit indisposed at the moment, but once she has recovered — why, is it that important to you?_ ”

“ _I think what Kyle is trying to say,_ ” Lonnie says, “ _that we’d sort of just consigned ourselves to a life of… Cohabitation without formal recongition._ ”

“ _Oh, goodness me…_ ” Double Trouble says. “ _Well, let’s talk more on this later; I’m sure the others want to get on with the subject matter at hand._ ”

“ _I don’t mind,_ ” Scorpia says. “ _I think it was very sweet._ ”

“So,” Catra says, as the de-factor moderator. “Let’s get back on track. We have a list we need to whittle down, and I think one of the most important things is going to be accommodations for security.” She’s lying on her belly twirling a pen, with a note-pad in front of her, completely uncovered by the silky-soft comforter Adora is well wrapped up in.

“Oh, yeah,” Adora says.

“I’m thinking Brightmoon is going to provide security for Glimmer’s party, and Salineas for Bow’s.”

“ _Why that?_ ” Scorpia asks.

"Because Bow isn’t actually a VIP by traditional metrics, and neither really is anyone else in that party, but Sea Hawk _is._ Netossa is less a Princess and more a defender; same Perfuma, she’s a religious leader more than a ruler.

"On the other hand, Glimmer’s party has a two Brightmoon VIPs and one Salinean. The Empress can bring a bodyguard if she wants, but the security at large should be Brightmoon. Then of course, I’ll have to wrangle cooperation from local law enforcement, but I have some experience in that.

“ _I can help,_ ” Lonnie says. “ _I’ve still got rank to pull._ ”

Catra’s position in the Horde military has been left more or less in limbo by everything that happened.

“So… Are we just going to bank on Glimmer and Bow not figuring anything out?” Adora asks. “They’re smart people…”

“That’s another reason for the disjoint security. Greater concern is that someone will get drunk and blab, but that’s why _we_ are there.”

“Catra, you’re implying neither of _us_ are going to get drunk and blab.”

Catra looks at Adora. “Good point. You’re a _terrible_ drunk.”

Weekend passes in the army lend themselves to a mindset of getting as much as possible out of a Saturday, then using all of Sunday to sleep through the repercussions.

“ _I could take tomorrow off,_ ” Kyle says, “ _and just take a stroll through downtown and ask the managers?_ ”

“Then we’ll get in touch with Brightmoon and Salineas royal security,” Catra says. “Ask them what they’d recommend.” She strikes that off her to-do list. “Anyone has anything else?”

There’s a brief pause.

“ _Doesn’t seem like it, Catra,_ ” Lonnie says. “ _My lunch break is almost over. I got a good feeling about this, I think it’ll be fun!_ ”

One by one they sign off.

“Say, who’s actually arranging the wedding if Castaspella is out partying?” Adora asks.

“I’d _assume_ Sparkle’s parents,” Catra says. “Like, now that they’re _alive,_ I should think they don’t mind putting in some work for their daughter’s big day.”

“Right,” Adora says.

Catra shifts. “How do you even deal with boobs that size? I feel like I shapeshift mine away all the time.”

Adora throws off the comforter looks down herself. In her true form she does have quite a bust; not so much in her social guise.

“I don’t know. I guess I just got used to them.”

Catra tosses the pen aside, and crawls over Adora. “Sorry.”

“What for?”

“I made it sound like your wonderful breasts are a bad thing.”

“You can just say you love me, and we’ll call it even,” Adora says.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Then Catra comes down for a kiss, and one thing leads to another.

* * *

“Really? The day before?” Glimmer says.

Catra has gone to Brightmoon — evening for her, lunch for Glimmer. They’ve a little terrace in the palace all to themselves. Glimmer is having vegetable soup out of a hollowed out loaf of bread. It’s a new street-food thing, down in the city.

“It’s the only way I could make the schedules work out,” Catra lies.

Glimmer shakes her head. “Fine, I guess. Who’s coming?”

“Your guard captain, your aunt, Wrodak, Mermista, Spinnerella…”

“Seems reasonable. Is that all?”

Catra shakes her head. “I invited Scorpia, too.”

Glimmer slurps up the rest of the soup, and wipes in her sleeve, then magicks the stain away.

“Classy.”

“As if you’re any better. Who else?”

“Lonnie.”

Glimmer looks at Catra. “That’s… Reasonable. Is she fun at parties?”

“Loads.”

“You’re cagey. I sense there’s an expected surprise coming,” Glimmer says.

Catra frowns. “I invited Double Trouble. Hear me out—”

“I approve.”

“Really?” Catra asks, surprised.

“What, I owe them. I pulled a nasty trick to get them to do my bidding. And I cannot imagine they’re boring at parties.”

“The way I hear them tell it, they are impressed with your guile; also you indirectly led them down the path to a blissful romance,” Catra says.

Glimmer breaks off a piece of the soup-soggy bread, and bites down. “How’s Adora?”

“She’s good. Keeping busy. She feels terrible that she can’t make it, but there’s some She-Ra related obligations that have come up.”

* * *

“That seems unwise,” Bow says.

Adora’s come to New Thaymor. It’s more of a logging camp at the moment, but everyone there greets Adora warmly when they pass. Bow is there purely as an inspector, taking reports from the Taymor Ranger chapter, and coordinating the effort with Plumeria to set up the same kind of areable clearing in the valley as existed before the Ash Corridor and the Reset.

“Don’t worry; remember what I did on the Swift Wind?”

Bow ponders this. “Oh, right. That was mighty convenient. So, the big question is who you decided to invite.”

“Well; if you were hoping for your old ranger unit, I’m sorry to disappoint.” It was a realization that struck her just an hour before. She has only really invited members of the ‘save-the-world’ reistance.

Bow snorts, then laughs that hearty warm laugh of his. “Adora, we’re going bar hopping in a different country. Most people don’t become rangers because city life is particularly appealing to them.”

“And you?”

A woman ranger comes over, handing Bow a surveying report. “I was always in it for the freedom of movement, and the thrill of exploration. That’s what I like about flying, too.”

“Speaking of, I couldn’t _not_ invite my mom. She’ll be out chaperone.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t be much of a pilot with her.”

“And Sea Hawk is coming too, of course.”

“Of course,” Bow says, smiling as he fills out some numbers in his ledger. “I haven’t seen him since the resistance dissolved — Glims and I have been _really_ busy.”

“Going down the list, I hope you don’t mind but I invited Perfuma. She _is_ your ex.”

“Not at all. We’re on good terms.”

“And while I was in Plumeria, I also invited Seneschal, so there is _one_ ranger.”

Bow looks up. “Huh. How’s he?”

“Good, it seemed. No hard feelings about the Northern Reach. Then I invited Netossa. She needs to get out of the house, and you’re pretty good buddies; right?”

Bow nods. “She’s the reason I got these —” he gestures to his bare arm where the enhancement tattoos adorn his skin “— which saved my life… And Glimmers.”

“Okay, how do you feel about Peekablue?”

Bow frowns. “I mean, he’s nice and all — I still need him to give me that omelette recipe — and we did kind of save the universe together, but what his wife did?”

“Catra’s done worse, and you’re okay with her.” Adora says.

Bow looks at her. “I guess that would be hypocritical. Sure. Peekablue’s welcome.”

“And last, I invited some of _my_ old buddies, because they know more about drinking in Capital than I do: Kyle and Rogelio.”

“Sounds good. Kyle’s cute.”

“And in a stable, committed relationship, like you.”

Bow looks at her with mock offense. “I meant that in the most brotherly way, thank you very much. I’d like to get to know him better, and I’ve witnessed first-hand that he does excellent work — Entrapta outsourced a lot of practical work to him before the final battle.”

“Well, if you’re good with the guest list, then that’s it.”

Bow consults his communicator. “I should really be looking at some lunch, soon. How’s Catra?”

“Oh, she’s doing _great._ She couldn’t make it; she’s got something going on with the magicats — Melog business.”

* * *

One of the last things that needs doing before the big night, is perhaps the most tedious: the department of international affairs needs to be notified.

As much as the power structures of society are flexing and bending, shifting and re-arranging, people still go to work because they believe what they do are important, and it is almost an employment prerequisite to believe that when working in international relations.

Among the many, many sources of anxiety in the diplomatic community is the fact that the government of the Kingdom of Snows has yet to actually reconvene, and they don’t seem to be in any hurry to do so.

Adora arrives by portal, just like about one fourth of all commuters does these days, and heads inside the rather lavish building, with its ornate decor and colonnade facade.

She heads up to the reception desk — one of several — and gets the attention of the Sasquatch receptionist.

“What can I do for your ma’am?”

Adora presents the two documents: twin pieces of rolled parchment. “I’m here delivering diplomatic missives from Brightmoon and Salineas.”

The receptionist notes the wax seals, but not much else, then hands them back to Adora.

“Forgive me one moment, ma’am, I’ll fetch my superior.”

Moments later, the receptionist returns trailing a blond elfin woman and a human man with slicked back hair.

“Good day,” the woman says. “I’m Vola, the deputy minister of foreign relations, this is our Brightmoon special consultant, Fulbright.”

“Pleasure; I used to be the minister envoy to Brightmoon,” Fulbright says.

Adora hands her the two letters. “I’m Adora.”

“This wouldn’t be _the_ Adora, also known as She-Ra, would it?” Fulbright asks while Vola reads the letter.

“Yes, that’s me.”

There’s a pause. Vola swaps to the letter from Salineas

“Hm.”

"What?

“I feel obliged to inform you, one diplomat to another,” Fulbright says, “that the military has a warrant out for your arrest.”

“Oh,” Adora says.

Vola looks up. “So, let me get this straight. The Queen of Brightmoon, and the Prince Consort of Salineas are both arranging… If I’m reading this correctly _separated bar crawls_ through downtown Capital on the _same night?_ ”

“Yes,” Adora says.

“And you’re the organizer,” Vola continues. “And you have an active warrant with the military police.”

“I’m only the organizer of one of them.”

“Right, the other is one Ms. Catra?”

Adora thinks for a moment. “I think she’s the former commander in chief.”

“I’ll have to take this to the chief secretary.”

* * *

A notification pings in Catra’s peripheral vision, distracting her from the three-dimensional anatomical model laid out in the virtual space.

“Excuse me for one moment,” she says, reading through the text message. “Oh.”

“What is it?” Perfuma asks.

“Just… Adora’s gotten arrested.” She takes off her mask, and gets out of the comfortable hover chair. The refurbished cave chamber is softly lit and most of it is taken up by the virtuality equipment and the medical scanner.

“Oh dear,” Double Trouble says, standing. “I suppose we’ll cut the lesson short. Remember to practice, Kitten, and don’t be too haughty to use a med scanner if you’re in doubt.”

Perfuma rises as well, and shakes Double Trouble’s hand. “That was very educational, and very different from what I had feared,” she says.

“I have two more lessons planned out, Princess,” Double Trouble says. “I’d be honored to see you attend my tutelage.”

“Yeah,” Catra says. “DeeTee, thanks for the lesson; same time next week?”

“If it suits Perfuma,” Double Trouble says looking to the Princess.

“It does!”

* * *

Catra steps through a portal onto the pavement in front of Army Investigations and Corrections headquarters. A building built a few years before the concrete behemoths of most of the Scientific Division headquarters, showing the early conceptions of the style.

She strides to the stairs, and up the front to the main entrance.

“Ma’am, please state your business,” one of the guards says, noting her agitated demeanor.

Catra shows him a rude gesture. “Get lost, Sergeant, this is way above your pay-grade.”

She steps in front of Catra. “Rank and name, please.”

She holds up her rank insignia. “General, retired. Catra.” It was a quick trip to the army records office to confirm that. The insignia is a fabricator-made replica. “Formerly Commander in Chief, director of Special Operations.”

The sergeant steps aside. “Proceed right inside, ma’am.”

Catra brushes past her, and in through the tall double-doors.

Inside the lobby is the usual amount of people coming and going, many of them uniformed and wearing the military police arm-bands.

Off to one side, animatedly discussing with a senior officer, is a slick-haired man in a suit. Catra vaguely recognizes him as a diplomat. She strides up to them.

“Hello, Mister—?”

He stops his rant to look at her.

“Fulbright, ma’am; diplomatic consultant on Brightmoon matters.”

“Great,” Catra. She turns to the officer and flashes her badge. “I need to have former Warrant Officer Adora released.”

The senior officer isn’t so easily convinced. “Can I see full papers?”

Catra pulls them pointedly from her coat pocket.

“You’re retired.”

Catra reaches up and grabs the man by the collar. “Listen here, you have a _Brightmoon General_ sitting in your interrogation room, or wherever; if that is not remedied _now,_ you are going to have to explain to the Provost why the Department of Foreign Affairs is calling for your resignation to appease our _allies._ ”

The senior officer pales. “Let me take you to her right away.”

* * *

The door opens behind Adora.

“If you’ve come to ask me more questions, I can already tell you you’ll be wasting your time,” Adora says.

“It’s me, Ad,” Catra says.

Adora spins in her seat to see Catra by the open door.

“Oh thank the stars, I though I was going to be here all day. How did you get in?”

“I’m officially a retired general, and I have a diplomat with me. I strong-armed everyone I needed to with threats of diplomatic incidents.”

Flubright peeks in. “Hello again, Ms. Adora.”

“Mr. Fulbright!” Adora says.

Catra strides into the room, and waves a hand over Adora’s cuffs, which unlock themselves. “You know, you are allowed to pull rank with these people. If you had told them you were a Brightmoon General —”

“But I resigned my commission,” Adora protests.

“These people don’t care. You’re a diplomatic liability, so they’ll kick it up the chain until it hits someone who’d rather it wasn’t their headache, or their superiors, and then the matter will be resolved.”

She helps Adora to her feet, and keeps hold of her hand as they leave.

* * *

They arrive home through portal by Catra’s hand, and Catra hugs Adora long and hard right there on the patio.

“Catra?”

“You idiot.”

Adora pulls back a little to look at her. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m worried,” Catra mutters. “That this is only the beginning.”

“What do you mean, Cat?”

Catra looks at Adora; even now in their social forms, Adora’s still two inches taller. “I _mean,_ Ad, that we did some things during the war that people aren’t going to bee keen about in peacetime. You defected — that’s treason. There’s going to be people in the army who wants to see you in court martial for that.”

“Oh.”

“Not to mention what _I_ did…” Catra looks away.

Adora turns her head back with a gentle hand. “Catra, we have friends in high places. And we _did_ save the universe. That has to count for something. And if not, Glimmer can give us both a pardon, and we’ll just move to Brightmoon.”

“Yeah,” Catra says.

“You don’t seem happy about that?”

“I don’t want to live as a fugitive. Brightmoon is your home, but… It isn’t mine.”

Adora nods towards their house. “And the Fright Zone is?”

Catra shrugs.

“Home is where the heart is, so your home is here, with _me._ And if we have to go back to space just because people don’t want us here, then that’s where I’ll take you, okay?”

Catra looks intently at Adora and blushes hard. “That’s…”

“Sappy? I know. Sorry,” Adora says, looking away.

“I love you,” Catra says, and leans in to kiss Adora on the cheek.

“I love you too,” Adora says.

They kiss, deeply, softly, and slowly. Catra’s hands wander idly inside Adora’s jacket.

Eventually, she pulls back, face flush, short of breath. “Perfuma and I had a lesson with Double Trouble today,” she says.

Adora blinks. “Oh. How did that go?”

As an answer, Catra opens her mouth and with a little bit of shapeshifting, elongates her tongue considerably, forking it at the tip. She sticks it out playfully, wiggling her eyebrows. “Wanna find out?”


End file.
